ineffable
by zorrie
Summary: lines 196-273 from IV.iii of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, told from Cassius' POV. Cassius/Brutus, pre-slash :


The dialog is lifted right from act IV, scene iii of Julius Caesar. The thoughts in Cassius' head, however, are mine ^_^

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Brutus refuses to raise his eyes from the scroll. It lies on the table half-open, seemingly harmless. I want to tear it in two. I want it to burn.

Messala is muttering some nonsense, the senators put to death – as though Antony's bloodlust is an unforeseen event. They are fools, all of thefm. Titinius seems to expect the skies to fall, or the gods to strike him dead. Brutus nods in all the right places, but his mind is elsewhere. It always is.

"Therein out letters do not well agree." He frowns as he speaks, his fingertips softly drumming the table.

The rush light gutters from a sudden draft, and I watch the play of shadows on the wall. Of course, Antony is killing the senators – and that Antony is behind this I am sure – for the senate is Rome's last vanguard of republicanism. The senate, that pitiable den of old men overfond of epideixis, was all that stood between Caesar and a tyrant's crown. Whether he would have pursued it I do not know, and I care not. It doesn't matter. It brought Brutus to my side. He looks toward the tent's door for a moment, turning so I cannot see his face. Biting his lip, I suspect.

"Mine speak of seventy senators that have died by their proscription…Cicero being one."

"Cicero one?" At that, I am surprised. I knew Antony to be cruel as well as a carouser, but now it is irrefutable. Now there is only the black and the white, and if you are not in support of someone then you must be against them. Maybe had now been another time, another place, I would have thought _this is the world we've created_, and wondered what it would come to. But I'm too busy reflecting on other things.

I look to Brutus, who only shakes his head the slightest bit and gestures for Messala to continue. I don't care. I don't look away; I keep my eyes right where they are, staring at his. Daring him to meet my gaze, or turn from it. I've heard people complain about feeling someone's eyes on them. I hope Brutus feels mine. I hope he burns.

Messala talks on, impervious.

And Brutus refuses to act as though I'm here at all. In an instant, I am going to knock the table aside, grab him by the chin and _make_ him look at me, the hell with Messala and Titinus.

Then Messala says, "Have you letters from your wife, my lord?"

I catch my breath. My anger thaws, slightly.

_Fell distract and, her attendants absent, swallowed fire_

Watching Brutus speak those words, as though he were wounding himself with each syllable, was an experience I never want to go through again. I blanch at the memory of it. Oh, Brutus.

"No, Messala."

"Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?"

"Nothing, Messala."

I don't understand.

Remembering Brutus' face as he told me of Portia's death, and the guilt there – he loved her dearly, and felt responsible, I know – I don't understand why he is putting himself through this again. What does he hope to do? To set an example? Inspire them with his stoicism?

"Now as you are a Roman, tell me true," Brutus says to Messala, when the damn pretty little messenger is no more Roman than a dog, no closer to Brutus' ridiculous conceptions of noble and judicious than a simpering child is! Yet Brutus looks him in the face and calls him Roman. A slight, choleric madman, he calls me – waspish, covetuous – and then takes back the things he has said only because he's decided to humor me. He never lets me go on fighting, but gives in before then, and so even when I win I haven't _won_. Brutus gives in not because he was wrong, but because he hasn't the strength to stay angry. Even when it's about me, it's about him. My flaws, my faults, too numerous and tiring to correct. I should be grateful Brutus puts up with them. I should be grateful Brutus puts up with me.

"Than like a Roman bear the truth I tell," Messala says. His voice is full of trepidation, and he pauses, waiting for some nod of assent to continue. Brutus gives it, and seems to listen with a most attentive ear. Brutus can pretend to listen to anyone, when it's for business. He's very conscious of these things.

This Brutus, the front he'd have his men believe, is so transparent, so self-conscious a charade that I am amazed when men believe it.

Messala takes himself too seriously. I don't like him at all. I'm amazed that Brutus, of all the fools ever to love honor, is not angry at Messala's implied slight to his. To believe that there is some blow Brutus' pride cannot take, and to say as much – I want to laugh bitterly in Messala's face. Brutus' pride can take anything. I of all people should know.

"Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala. With meditating that she must die once, I have the patience to endure it now."

You liar, you fucking liar, I want to whisper. You never thought about it, and even if you had you still couldn't bear it. You can't bear it now.

"Even so great men, great losses should endure," Messala says sympathetically, obviously referring to Portia and missing the point entirely. Brutus is grieving for himself. Brutus feels pain for Portia, but she is dead and it cannot be helped. I can see it in his face; Brutus feels his situation deserves more grief, because now he must live without her. It's a despicable grief, and Brutus is an ass.

Thoughts of himself wrap Brutus too thickly for thoughts of others to reach his mind. Portia's death was a cruel blow, but a deserved one. I sigh. Brutus glances at me and I stare back with the gods only know what expression on my face – I think I'd like to choke him.

_Fell distract and, her attendants absent, swallowed fire._ Every word like a knife. Does Brutus think I don't remember the way his voice broke, and how he very nearly buried his face in my shoulder? Does Brutus think I can watch him put himself through this again, watch him act stalwart in front of his men when it is the grossest of lies?

Private life, and thus private grief, has no place in public. I know, I know. If Brutus wishes to inflict more grief upon himself, then far be it from me to stop him. I couldn't if I tried. But what right does Brutus think he has to make me watch?

"I have as much of this in art as you, but yet my nature could not bear it so."

It's cruel. But so is he. I know it's uncalled for. But I feel perfectly justified.

Messala winces for me, and Titinius carefully looks away. They only think I'm extrordinarily tactless. _Even so great men, great losses should endure._ They don't know that Brutus is far from being a great man, so very far. Yet Messala was right about one thing, if for the wrong reasons. What greater loss to a man than his ego? I know exactly what Portia meant to Brutus: not enough. Had Brutus valued Portia rightly, he'd never have come to me. I'm not complaining. But I'm not dumb, either. I can't stop Brutus if he wants to play the stoic hero, but I can let him know I'm aware he's an ass. For once, I am glad I don't belong to a venerable and noble family. When I acted idiotic, I was told as much. Maybe that's Brutus' problem. His family allowed him to persist in his little self-deceptions for too long.

"Well, to our work alive. What do you think of marching to Phillipi presently?"

I'm cautious; Brutus may honestly be asking for advice, and if he is, I don't want to throw the chance away. It isn't often that Brutus asks for anything. Or he may be asking for form's sake, for courtesy, when he has already decided.

Despite the risk of making a fool of myself objecting when all Brutus wants is a yes-man, I'm desperate enough to want to believe he actually cares what I think.

"I do not think it good."

"Your reason?" Brutus won't look at me as he speaks, and my heart sinks to my feet.

Wrong again, Cassius. Titinius and Messala are watching, though, and I realize suddenly how pathetic I must look.

"This it is: 'Tis better that the enemy seek us. So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers, doing him offense, whilst we, lying still, are full of rest, defense, and nimbleness." I'm right, I know I'm right, but the look on Brutus' face makes me feel like a prating knave. My words sound hollow even to me.

"Good reasons must of force give place to better," and suddenly my five minutes has ended and Brutus is running the show; "The people 'twixt Phillipi and this ground do stand but in a forced affection, for they have grudged us contribution."

His logic is faulty, ridiculous. Brutus nods to himself as he speaks, and I can't find it in me to interrupt. "The enemy, marching along by them, shall by them mke a fuller number up, come on refreshed, new-added, and encouraged;" he unrolls the scroll and gestures to the map to illustrate his point, tracing the route to Phillipi, "from which advantage shall we cut him off, if at Phillipi we do face him there, these people at our back."

Brutus looks at me expectantly.

"Hear me, good brother –"

"Under your pardon." He raises one eyebrow, giving me time to object and knowing I will not. "You must note beside that we have tried the utmost of our friends. Our legions are brim full, our cause is ripe." Brutus has spoken. And that is that.

Just because I won't oppose you does not make you right, I want to shout at him. But doesn't it? Why won't I say something?

"The enemy increaseth every day; we, at the height, are ready to decline."

His sympathetic glance in my direction makes my blood burn, and I clench my hands into fists below the table. We _are_ ready to decline, and marching to Phillipi _will not fix that_. Marching to Phillipi will make that worse. But Brutus takes such pride in his naïve reasoning. He smiles winningly, leans over and grasps my hand.

"There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat, and we must take the current then, or lose our ventures."

He's a fool, he's a fool, he's a fool.

(But you love him.)

And I don't know what I should do. I press my knuckles into my eyes, annoyed. I know what I will do, but not whether I should do it. At this point, does it matter?

"Then, with your will, go on." As though I had any other choice. "We'll along ourselves and meet them at Phillipi."

There. I've done it. For all Brutus thinks I have no honor, a man has to have some sense of worth. I've given in, let go of my last shred of pride. I would like a moment to mourn it, please. Yet the way Brutus looks at me makes me think – the relief on his face when I seconded him - well, maybe he does need me.

"The deep of night is crept upon our talk, and nature must obey necessity, which we will niggard with a little rest. There is no more to say?"

He's right, of course. I've just let Brutus walk all over me. What remains for me to say? "No more. Good night." Brutus smiles again, and I think I'd do anything to see that smile. "Early tomorrow we will rise and hence." Marching out to Phillipi. I still can't quite believe it.

Nor can Titinius or Messala, apparently. They exchange an unfathomable look across the table, before standing and walking toward the tent flap. We're all tired. Brutus calls Lucilius for his gown, and the boy leaves to retrieve it. Messala steps forward to shake Brutus' hand, and Brutus takes the hint.

"Farewell, good Messala. Good night, Titinius."

I don't get up.

The two damned plebes can stand by the door all night for all I care. Brutus sits beside me, and I hold my breath. I'm not sure what I'm doing, or what I'm feeling. I'm embarrassed, I'm irritated, but even as I resent Brutus for being an ass, thinking he knows better than I do, I somehow don't regret giving in to him, which makes absolutely no sense. He puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezes it gently so that Titinius and Messala can't see.

"Noble, noble Cassius, good night and good repose." Brutus means it. I shoot him a look of fierce reproach, and Brutus' mouth twists in ironic surrender. It's a bit late for compliments; what makes Brutus think I'm still interested in them? After calling me choleric, no less. Maybe I don't care what Brutus thinks or says. Maybe I'm past that.

I'm not.

"Oh my dear brother, this was an ill beginning of the night! Never come such division 'tween our souls!"

The words come out breathless, more pleading than I'm comfortable with, completely lacking the forceful tone they had in my mind. I hear a muffled snicker behind me; Titinius, I think. But Brutus' eyes hold a world of warmth, and nothing else seems to matter.

"Let it not, Brutus," I whisper.

I never get my answer. Lucius walks in with Brutus' gown, and he stands and slips it on.

"Everything is well," Brutus assures us, formal once more as he ushers Lucilius out.

A terrible anticipation curls itself in my chest, because I don't believe it, and I don't believe Brutus does, either. I'm somewhat offended. Brutus must think I'm witless, to be so easily mollified. Is he trying to tell me to shut up?

That he should say something and I instantly adhere?

(Don't you always?)

No, no I do not. I do not… dote on Brutus like that. It would be embarrasing.

Brutus is regarding me curiously. I realize I'm staring at him with narrowed eyes. "Good night, my lord," I snap out, mortified and wishing I was anywhere, anywhere else.

"Good night, good brother." Brutus leans down, his back to the room, and our foreheads nearly touch. Something unidentifiable and oddly pleasant twists in my stomach. My eyes dart to his lips for a moment, and I can't help but notice that they're pale and chapped and parted slightly. I don't know how long we stay like that, Brutus hovering over me, but suddenly and far too soon Titinius and Messala interject.

"Good night, lord Brutus."

There is an awkward pause. Brutus straightens up, brushes the front of his gown abstractly and glances at me, then away.

Reluctantly I rise, as well, and stride toward the tent flap. I don't look at Messala or Titinius as I pass.

"Farewell, everyone," Brutus is saying, but I'm halfway out of the tent as I hear it.


End file.
